Last September, I sat down with my 97-year-old grandfather to share a good bourbon and the story of my recent Dall sheep hunt in Canada’s Northwest Territories. Pouring two glasses, I started the conversation describing every detail of northern sheep country. Being a lifelong mountain hunter and craving one more adventure, Grandpa clung to each of my words as if his boots were as dirty as my own. When I handed him a photo of my ram, our glasses were empty, but the story was just getting started. He looked at the photo, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Kid, that’s hell for purdy.” Roughly translating his cowboy vernacular, the phrase meant “Kid, that’s a beautiful sheep.” I smiled at how often both of us use that descriptive phrase.
Tavis (Tav) Molnar, the owner of Arctic Red River Outfitters (ARRO), and I have been good friends for almost 30 years. In that time, Tav has become keenly aware that I’m hopelessly under the spell of mountain sheep. I’m sure it was no surprise to Tav when he called in late July offering me a last-minute cancellation sheep hunt that I quickly accepted and packed my gear for a trip to the Mackenzie Mountains.
Two short weeks later and still in shock at how fast the logistics of this hunt came together, I found myself deep in the Mackenzies with two guides, Kent Robertson and Ben Stourac. During the first three days of the hunt, we hiked 30 miles of prime sheep country and looked over 26 rams spaced out in small groups on upper slopes of the mountains. Most were young rams, but three were exceptional trophies I considered taking. At ARRO, the goal is to harvest rams 10 years old or older, and while one of those rams was a beautiful full curl, he was slightly too young. The other two rams were past 10 years old, but each was broomed off well back of full curl and not the long-horned ram I hoped to find on this hunt. I decided to pass on them all.
Late on the fourth day, we found ourselves on a high ridge glassing a yet unhunted valley stretched out to the west. Unfortunately, that afternoon was the end of Ben’s time on my hunt. He was slated to guide a new sheep hunter in the coming days.
Kent and I hiked to a low ridge and made our camp for the night. Just before dark, Kent boiled water for a Mountain House meal and I sat down to glass nearby ridgelines for sheep. Almost immediately, I spotted a lone ram feeding halfway up the mountain and quickly got Kent’s attention. I was looking a long way, maybe two miles with binoculars, but I had the impression this ram could be something special.
Kent, who was seated and calmly boiling water for our meal, leisurely set up his spotting scope for a look. The moment his scope came into focus, his relaxed posture tightened. He sat up on his knees and cupped his right hand alongside the scope’s eyepiece to block peripheral light and steady the view. Seeing that, I knew Kent’s opinion of this sheep even before he said, “Cody, I think you found your ram.”
When it was my turn behind the scope, the ram was quartering slightly away from my view. At that angle, I could see his deep curl extended down well below his jaw line and then swept back up over his nose, rolling over with perfect tips in an Argali shape. Unfortunately, Kent and I knew a stalk wasn’t possible in the evening’s failing light. We were resigned to watch the ram feed until dark and then pray he would stay put through the night.
The next morning, I was up at the first hint of color on the eastern horizon. Sunrise was still hours away and Kent was still snoring soundly in his tent, but from my anxious perspective, that color was enough to start looking for the ram. In the low light, it was difficult to identify white shapes on the mountain. I strained my eyes, studying each one through the spotting scope, but could only identify what I termed “Rock Rams” with my effort. It wasn’t until an hour later, when the sun finally lit up the mid-slope of the mountain, that I found him. The ram was feeding on a ridgeline not far from where we had left him. In the morning sun, his horns looked even more impressive than they had the previous evening and I knew this was the ram I wanted.
Spotting the ram, I must have made a stir and woke up Kent. A short time later, he strolled over to my tent carrying two cups of instant cappuccino.
I said, “I guess that coffee means we’re not going sheep hunting right now.” Kent smiled, handing me a cup, and then responded, “No, man. Let’s relax and wait for him to bed before we head up there.”
Kent and I leisurely enjoyed three more cups of coffee while watching the ram that morning. We guessed at where he might eventually bed and analyzed every possible stalking route to those locations. At around 10:00 a.m., Kent made a prediction I’ll never forget. He said, “Cody, it’s about time for that ram to bed. I bet he heads for that bench under the cliffs to his right.” Ten minutes later, that’s exactly what he did. When the ram reached the bench, Kent said, “Now he’s going to kick the ground, turn around in a circle, and lay down.” Almost on cue, the ram did exactly that.
The moment the ram bedded, our relaxed demeanor shifted to intense focus. From where we stood, the best route would take us two miles along a series of low ridges and then up a steep talus slope to a cliff band directly across from the ram. Over that distance, we would be out of view of the sheep and could only hope he would stay bedded long enough for us to get there.
It took us two hours of steady climbing to reach the cliffs. Kent and I dropped our packs at the cliff base, and I loaded my rifle, half expecting and half hoping the ram to be where we had left him. From there, Kent and I crawled the last 10 yards over the ridgeline. I was in front of Kent and had just eased over the ridgeline when I spotted the ram still bedded on the bench. I was in full view of the sheep, but the new Altitude gear from Kryptek broke my outline perfectly and the ram was completely unaware of our presence.
Easing forward, I found a prone shooting position alongside a small bush and ranged the ram at 400 yards. Kent began counting age rings on the ram’s horns through the spotting scope.
He excitedly whispered, “Oh, look at those tips, Cody. I can’t see well, but I can count nine rings on him.”
Hoping the tenth age ring was hidden by hair at the base of the ram’s horn, I whispered, “So, he’s ten then?”
In a clear and almost urgent response, Kent whispered, “Yep, green light, Cody, green light.”
Hearing that, I quickly dialed the scope to 400 yards and settled my cheek on the stock. Unfortunately, the ram was bedded and quartering toward us on a five-foot wide bench with a vertical rock wall at his back. Just a few feet in front of him, an extremely steep talus slope extended down 300 yards before dropping into a vertical gorge near the bottom of the canyon. A poor shot could send the ram cascading down into the gorge. I decided the best chance to anchor the ram on that bench was to wait for him to stand and then place the first round on his spine, dropping him quickly. I eased the safety forward just as the ram stood for a mid-afternoon stretch and slowly turned to his left. When he was broadside, I centered the crosshairs on his spine and squeezed the trigger. I heard the bullet hiss across the canyon and return a familiar thump as it found the mark. Instantly, the ram crumpled over all four feet, square in the middle of the narrow bench.
It took Kent and me about half an hour to maneuver around the basin, following the cliff line to the downed ram. Standing over the sheep, I admired him from every angle. I was in awe not only at the size of his horns, but also the unusual circumstances that led me to that moment. Just a few weeks prior, I had no thought of sheep hunting, yet there I was standing over a ram as large as any I had ever dreamed of taking. All I could think was, “That’s hell for purdy.”